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Zombie Story One
Hey this is my first story i have ever made i hope it is good. please leave comments for name suggestions MrZombie (talk) 06:57, April 10, 2014 (UTC) My First Zombie Story You really aren't awake yet. You never are until at least your second cup of coffee, and this is only your first. You're having a hard time getting your eyes to focus. But it certainly looks like there's a man in your front yard, crouched down on all fours, gnawing at a leg. A human leg. Definitely. It's still wearing a sneaker. And a sock. The man gnawing on the human leg suddenly stops chewing, as though some sound disturbs him. He slowly looks up from his meal. His eyes don't blink, and they seem to be too large for his face. His mouth hangs open. Drool and blood trail down his chin. You've heard about the outbreak in Millbury, of course. You just hadn't thought it was as serious as the eleven o'clock news made it out. They get hysterical about everything. A couple of inches of snow, and it's THE SNOWPOCALYPSE. You can't really be blamed for putting their ZOMBIEPOCALYPSE warnings in the same category. Boy who cried wolf, right? But it seems the newscasters were at least a little right, because there's a zombie chewing down on a human leg in your front yard. Shit. And just then you catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye, and a herd of at least twenty more zombies comes staggering around the bend in the road. They are covering ground pretty steadily. Faster than you would have thought. The zombie with the leg sees them coming. He rises from his crouch, teeth bared, leg in hand. Some of the zombie herd move towards him. (Herd? Is that the right word? Maybe a flock? A decomposition of zombies? An infestation, perhaps? Anyway.…) They start a messy tug of war with the leg, mostly using teeth. Others look around for different prey. One goes for a squirrel. Some seem to be eyeing your front windows, though you're standing far enough back that you don't think they can actually see you. Still, this is really not good. Your house is on one floor, and the news footage made it pretty clear that zombies can break through glass with no trouble, zombifying some humans and eating others. And it seems that they've already started doing just that in your neighbourhood, because those two zombies there have glass shards sticking out of their faces. And you recognize one of them—that annoying woman who always cuts in line at the coffee shop. She is moving towards your windows. So are about five others. You slam down your coffee mug. Oddly enough, you don't really feel like you need it anymore; your heart is hammering like you've just downed a triple espresso. You shove your feet into your running shoes and bolt for the back door. You snap open the lock, yank the door open, and run like hell across your yard and into the woods. As you run, you can hear growling and screaming from your front yard and your neighbours' front yards. It decreases Doppler-fashion the farther into the trees you get. You wonder if shooting zombies will turn out to be more or less difficult than shooting deer. You expect you'll be finding out. Soon. You didn't have a chance to grab your gun on the way out the door, but you hope you will find one in your travels. Once you're well into the forest, you stop to listen. You don't hear any rustling or anything, so you walk more slowly. Soon the pines begin to thin, and you can see glimpses of apple trees on the other side. This must be the outlying edge of Coursers' Farm, though you've never come at it from this direction. When you go to their farmstead, you always go by road. A few steps more, and you can see the farmhouse, some distance away. Beyond that is the long dirt road that leads from the farmstead to the farmhouse, and beyond that (though you can't see it) is a paved road. You decide to go warn the Courser' You take the first step forward and something grabs your ankle and pulls you down. And then up, with astonishing strength. You find yourself upside down, dangling headfirst a few feet off the ground. There's a band of tight, hot pain clamped around your foot. The distinctive chi-chink of a shotgun comes to your ears. The old man who steps slowly into your field of vision, shotgun aimed at your head, doesn't have the drooling, fixed-eyed look of the zombies in your front yard. He doesn't have the sagging, rotting flesh, either. He looks overall pretty healthy. He is observing you closely. "Lucky you didn't run into the bear trap," he says. "Traps what a great idea" The old man grins a little. "You bet your behind, they're mine. No zombie's getting closer than this to my land." The old man circles you again. "Don't seem like you want to eat me," he says. "But you could be bit and just not turned yet. Safest thing is probably to leave you here." You don't think much of this idea at all. You envision yourself hanging here as a horde of zombies swarms through the woods. You envision them all trying to eat you as you dangle helplessly. They'd start with your head, you're sure. They'd try to take bites out of you as you swung back and forth between them, like bobbing for apples. "On the other hand," the old man goes on, "that wouldn't be very neighbourly, if you're really not bit. Guess I'd better let you down." He's near a particularly large oak tree now. He does something you can't see, and the pain around your ankle vanishes. To be replaced by a pain in your head, after you fall on it. "Now strip," the old man orders, shotgun pointed at your head. "Prove you're not bit." You don't have lots of choices right at this moment, so you comply. And the old man smiles. "Well, good, then! Good for you. You'd better come inside the perimeter. I'm Brian Courser, by the way. And you are? "Keith" Nice to meet you, keith." He shakes your hand. "Careful where you step, now. There's a few more snares where that came from." You follow in his footsteps very carefully. On the way to the farmhouse, he points out five bear traps, four trapping pits, three snares, and two deadfall traps. "Knew they were coming," he says, in reference to the zombies—at least, you think so; you suppose it could as easily be in reference to the government or the Commies or something. "Can't be too prepared." In front of the farmhouse, a Jeep is waiting, about three-quarters packed with stuff. The farmhouse itself is empty and silent. "Where's the rest of your family, Brian?" "Won't be coming back," he says shortly. "I had to stay until I was sure, but I'm leaving now. There's a group of survivors dug in at the Cedar Junction Correctional Facility. I'm off to join them." "Why bother with all those traps, then…?" "I told you, had to wait until I was sure my family wouldn't be coming back. Had to slow the dead critters down. But the traps won't be enough against a real big horde. I'll do better at the prison." He puts his shotgun in the Jeep, where there are many boxes of ammunition to keep it company, plus several boxes of MREs. Brian looks up from his packing job at you. "So will you, if you want to come." "I'll come with you if that’s ok" Brian grins "help me finish packing and then we will leave" You help Brian finish packing the Jeep, and the two of you head off. Brian takes the road that skirts around the edge of town, so you pass only a few houses. You try not to look too hard at the scenes playing out on the various lawns. Some zombies cluster around first floor windows, matter of factly marching through shrubbery and glass to get at the tasty humans inside. Others cluster around tasty humans already dragged outside. A few chase your car for a while, but soon give it up in favour of pursuing the sounds or movements that signal easier prey. You really try not to look, but you can't help noticing that partially eaten humans rise from the grass within a few moments of becoming partially eaten and join the throng of hungry zombies. Only if the hungry zombies have ripped their meal to pieces in the process of dining does the human appear to stay dead. brian turns on the radio at this point, distracting you. "…have upgraded the Zombie Watch to a Zombie Warning for the following counties," the radio says, and then the announcer rattles off a long list. The announcer seems pretty rattled herself. "I repeat, this is a serious and life-threatening situation. If you are in this area, you are in the path of the zombiepocalypse and should take shelter immediately. Zombies can break through glass and can climb stairs, so we are advising all residents to leave their homes while they still can. Groups of survivors have been forming at various locations throughout the state. Within the last hour, we have heard from the groups at Maple Valley Mall, Cedar Junction Correctional Facility, and First Church of Fulton, so we can confirm that those are still viable sanctuaries for state residents fleeing the zombiepocalypse. Here is a list of school and business closings as a result of the zombiepocalypse.…" Static engulfs the station again. That's interesting. You've almost reached the town limits, and there aren't many buildings lining the street now. Mostly woods and fields. You're getting into real farming territory. Sometimes you see a car abandoned on the side of the road, but you don't see any people. There aren't many people out here at all, which you hope means fewer zombies.… …except that there are three of them, right there in front of you. On the left side of the road is a large oak tree. I mean, a really large tree—it's locally famous; the base is something like twenty feet around. Three zombies are pressed up against the base, looking up into the branches like dogs who have just treed a squirrel. Which is an apt comparison, you realize a moment later. High up in the branches is a guy, you think maybe your age. As you come closer, you see that one of the zombies is jumping, and another trying to crawl up the tree trunk. The third seems to be experimenting with all the moving parts necessary to actually climb the tree, but hasn't worked them out yet. Still, it's very likely only a matter of time. You can see the guy's face clearly now. He looks terrified, and his mouth is open as though he is screaming for help. He's looking at you. "We need to stop and help him" You say. He glances at you. "Damn right. Get the shotgun out of the back. I'll drive, you shoot." You brace the shotgun against your shoulder and flick the safety off. Five shells. Three zombies. You can do this. You've been shooting guns since you were a kid. Not that you generally shoot deer from the windows of Jeeps screaming in circles, though. And the deer aren't generally trying to eat you while you do. You feel your palms sweat as the three zombies look away from the tree and at the approaching Jeep. "Ready?" Brian says, and slams on the brakes before you can answer. The lurch of the Jeep spoils your aim, and your first shot goes wide. The female zombie starts briskly towards the Jeep. You raise the gun again and blow her head off. You see the shower of brains go up as she falls over. One down. Brian hits the gas hard and you whirl away. "We'll come back for another pass," Brian says, and only then do you see how close to the window the other two zombies got. Both are male—or were, in life. One young, one older. "Ready?" Brian says again, and slams on the brakes. Three shells, two zombies. This time, you are ready. You hit the younger male on the first try, and are whirling to face the older male before the younger body has hit the ground. The older male stumbles away, spoiling your aim—your shot goes wide—Brian swings the Jeep around to give you another pass. And you find yourself face to face with a grinning, snarling, drooling zombie, not more than an arm's length from your open window. You blow its head off. It falls over. "Nice," Brian says, and jumps out and runs over to the tree to get the guy you've saved. "You okay? " asks brian. "hell yeah that was awesome" "So," you say to Justin, "what's your story?" "The two guys were my roommate and his son," Justin says. "The woman was hitchhiking, and I said we shouldn't pick her up, but Bob never did think I was worth listening to. He insisted.… And then we stopped because I had to pee, and when I got back from the bushes, all of them had zombified. I was right. We shouldn't have picked her up." "How long was she in the car with you first?" Brian asks sharply. "What? I don't know…what do you mean?" "You know how long it takes for someone to turn, if they're not killed," Brian says impatiently. "If they're killed, we know it's almost immediate, but we don't know exactly how long if they're just bit and left alive.…" "I don't know," Justin says again. "I wasn't really paying attention." "Well, ballpark then. An hour? A half hour? Five hours? Five minutes?" "I said I don't know!" Justin sounds defensive, almost teary. "Easy does it," you say, and several other things along those lines, and finally Justin remembers that it was about fifteen minutes between when they picked up the hitchhiker and when the hitchhiker started eating his roommate. Justin seems calmer now, though he has apparently decided to talk only to you, not Brian. "Where are we going?" he asks. You explain about the prison. "Oh." He sounds disappointed. "Why?" "I was hoping we were headed for the interstate. Do you know about Chris Murray?" He waves a Smartphone. "No," Brian says. "I've been following the Zombiepocalypse Survivors group on Facebook," Justin explains. "There aren't, um, aren't so many of them posting as there used to be, but Chris's still updating his status every couple of hours." He shows you the Smartphone screen. Chris's status updates are all almost the same. "COME GET ME! If you provide transportation to the Cedar Junction Correctional Facility, I can keep you safe from zombies on the way! I know what I'm talking about—look how long I've stayed alive!" "I've been messaging with him," Justin says. "He's at the transfer centre off exit 13. Bob said we'd go there first, and then the church.… I think that's the best plan, but if you want to do something else, of course, it's your car, I can't do anything about it.…" You're going to have to convince Brian. He says he thinks it's a bad idea—mostly, you get the impression, because he finds Justin annoying and wants to contradict him. You make a long-winded and overly elaborate statement of your reasons for, in this particular circumstance, all things being equal, preferring to take the risks involved in rescuing the student because of the advantages his presence might provide, as well as the arguments of honour and duty.… Brian is distinctly unimpressed, and informs you that you'll be continuing on your way to the prison without stopping to rescue the student. After a short while, a gas station comes up on your right. Brian pulls in. "We'd better fuel up while we have the opportunity." "I'm hungry," Justin says. "There's MREs in the box beside you." Justin makes a face. "No, I mean I want food. I can't eat that weird shit. Can't one of you get some real food from the gas station?" You wouldn't have thought what was sold at gas stations counted as "real food," but apparently Justin does. Brian looks like he wishes he'd left this whiny brat to be eaten by zombies. He rolls his eyes. "Fine, go get some, then." You walk into the gas station, in search of munchies. And you find—probably you should have expected this—a zombie inside, also in search of munchies. In fact, the zombie has found munchies. The zombie appears to have a kid cornered in the very back of the store, between the ice cream cooler and the shelf of artificially flavoured and coloured "potato" chips. But the zombie doesn't seem to have started munching yet. It turns its head as you enter and studies you with interest. You're not quite sure why you'd seem like more attractive prey than the cowering kid—a boy of about nine or ten—but it's possible that you do. To judge by the (sort-of) expression on (what's left of) the zombie's face. It sweeps its long hair out of its eyes to look at you better. This one seems to have been a teenage girl. You look around the gas station. You are standing almost in one corner, with the counter and cash register behind you. The zombie and its potential victim are in the opposite corner. Along the wall to your left is a display of Frisbees, beach balls, and whiffle balls and bats. Past it, in the left-hand corner, is a freezer with bags of ice. Along the wall to your right are shelves containing cat food cans, condiments, lighters, bags of charcoal, bags of hot dog and hamburger buns, and lighter fluid. (On a more relaxed occasion you might pause to wonder what the cat food is doing in the cookout display.) Perhaps out of fear regarding the lighter fluid, there is a fire extinguisher over the shelves. In the middle of the store, more towards your left than your right, are some rickety-looking stands holding candy, maps, and newspapers. Before you can decide quite what to do, the zombie charges across the centre of the room at you. Behind the counter is the cash register, packets of cigarettes, lottery tickets, and no way out. The zombie comes straight for you. And your eyes light on the final item on this side of the counter: a sawed-off shotgun. Which you, fortunately, know how to use. The zombie is closing. You have only one shot. But you only need one. You blow its head clean off. It topples backward, and you're pretty sure it will stay dead. Just in case, though, you lose no time in running for the cowering kid, physically hauling him to his feet, and dragging him out the door with you. You're quite a ways down the road before your heart settles down. "You should probably put your seatbelt on," you say to the kid. Brian snorts a little, apparently considering seat belts to be a wussy invention of the modern era. "Oh," the kid says. "Yeah." He does. "What's your name?" you ask. "Kayden." "I'm keith," you say. "Where are your parents, Kayden?" "Don't know," Kayden says. After a while, he adds, "That was my sister, inside." "Oh." You can't think of anything else to say. "It's okay." "Where are we going?" Kayden asks after a while. "To a prison," Brian says. Justin makes a little sniffing noise. You continue on your way to the prison. before long, the radio crackles into life.… "…news has reached us this hour of a riot at the Cedar Junction Correctional Facility. An escapee reports that a refugee infected with the disease somehow slipped past the quarantine procedures and managed to infect several occupants. Efforts at lockdown and containment having proven unsuccessful, the refugees once quartered there have abandoned the facility. We repeat, the Cedar Junction Correctional Facility is no longer a viable location for zombiepocalypse refugees. The Maple Valley mall and First Church of Fulton are still accepting refugees.…" "I knew we should have gone to the church," Justin says. "We should go now." "Mall's the best bet," Brian says. Looks like it's up to you. Where do you want to go? You head for the mall. Justin sulks. The setting sun glints off the high skylights of Maple Valley Mall as you pull into its parking lot. There are a few cars parked near the entrance. Toward the outer edge of the lot, a bus is parked in an awkward diagonal across several spaces. You stop the car near the main entrance, but nothing happens. You look around. You try to see through the glass. It seems oddly quiet to you. Shouldn't they have lookouts or something? "They certainly should," Brian says grimly. You hadn't realized you'd spoken out loud. You honk the horn. A few minutes later, a woman's face appears in the window. Shouting through the glass, she tells you to drive around to the loading dock in the back. You find it with no trouble. A paved downward slope leads from the back lot to huge steel double doors built into the ground. No one is there to meet you. You wait. It's creepy. Finally one of the steel doors opens. A female eye and the barrel of a shotgun appear. Brian nods approvingly. The middle-aged woman checks for zombies in the parking lot before opening the door wide enough to let you in. "Are any of you doctors?" she demands in greeting. "I have some training," you say. "What's going on?" "That bus out front brought people hurt in a big traffic accident in Fulton. Some of them are pretty bad. Come this way, quick!" The woman, who introduces herself as Mary, leads you through the basement, up the stairs and into the mall proper. Up ahead you can see the place with the squishy chairs that seems to grow organically in the middle of every shopping mall. It's lit with bright and happy artificial mall light, it smells like coffee, and it's full of tents and people sitting outside tents, chatting. You start to relax at the sight…and then the unmistakable sound of zombie moans reaches your ears. No, hey, wait, it's okay, it's okay!" Mary says. Amusement and sympathy struggle for dominance in her voice. "Sorry, I should have warned you, I know what that sounds like. You're the first to arrive since we set up the—what did you call it, Scott?" "Simulation tank?" a new voice says at your right elbow. You jump around to find that it belongs to a man about Mary's age, dressed in the uniform of mall security. "The teenage kids are there now, playing zombie games. Seemed like it could be…well, useful, and less hazardous than an actual shooting range." Your heart is still pounding in your ears, adrenaline singing through your veins. Not zombies, you tell yourself. Not zombies. Zombie games. Which they didn't feel it necessary to warn you about. "You should know better than to startle a man with a gun!" Brian adds. "What the hell kind of Mickey Mouse operation is this?" "I really am sorry," Mary says, expression completely contrite now, all trace of amusement gone. "It was thoughtless." She waits until she receives a stiff nod of acknowledgement from both of you, accepting the apology, before she says, "Err, about startling a man with a gun…" Brian's face goes blank. "You had better not be expecting me to hand it over." "Of course not. We cleaned out the hunting section of the sporting goods store, and anyone who can handle a gun can have one. But since a couple of people brought kids, we have to be very careful where we keep the guns and ammunition, so—" Brian makes a rude sound. "That kind of coddling gets you nowhere. You should teach them up front that a gun is not a toy, and then you don't have that problem. It's what's wrong with modern society." Mary stares at him. "Maybe, but that's the society we've got to work with. Please unload your gun and store the ammunition separately." Brian almost laughs. "Great way to be caught without a working firearm when the zombies attack. I'm not handing you my gun and I'm not leaving it unloaded." "Hey." Mary fixes him with a glare. "There's no need to be so rude. You're not in charge here; we voted on these rules before you got here." "I should be in charge here. None of you have any idea what you're doing." "He's damn right he should be! This man is the best chance we have of getting through this alive! He's worth ten of you, and he gets to say how his own weapon is stored!" "No," Mary says. "No, I can't compromise on this. It's a matter of safety for the kids." She looks at Brian. "I'm sorry, but if you're not willing to abide by our gun safety rules, you're not welcome to stay here." "Suits me fine," Brian says. "I'll do better on my own." He storms for the door. At this point, Scott, the security guy, pipes up. "Brian, wait. Where will you go?" "Anywhere but here," says Brian, but then he pauses for a moment to consider the question. "Somewhere isolated." Scott shakes his head. "I obviously can't stop you, but without a plan…" "Damariscove Island is isolated," suggests Mary. "Damariscove it is," says Brian. He turns and leaves. Brian seems surprised to see you following him. "Can't stand those little tin-plated dictators either?" "Nope." "I knew there was something about you I liked. All right, then." You get in the car with him. He seems to be reading a map he pulled out of the glove compartment. "I'm not going to any other refugee camp run by committee," he says. "But where else can we go?" "Damariscove Island," says Brian, pointing to the map. It's a small island not far from Fulton. "We'll head for the docks and steal a boat." So the two of you head for the Fulton docks, to steal a boat that will take you to safety. Early the following morning, you hear a report on the radio that the Maple Valley Mall refugee group was overrun by zombies that appear to have taken it from the inside. You remember there were no quarantine procedures when Mary let you in. Mickey Mouse operation, definitely. Brian does not express any regret, grief, or guilt for the people massacred there, and does not ask whether you feel any. Only you know if you do. You arrive at the outskirts of Fulton just before dawn. Making your way to the wharf through a city lit only by streetlamps and pre-dawn light—not to mention potentially crawling with zombies—is going to be pretty difficult. That, or it's going to be a lot of fun. It all depends how you look at it. You figure the most direct path to the wharf is straight down Main Street—the less time spent out in the open, the less chance you'll become snack food. You slowly navigate the outer roads of Fulton until you hit Main Street. So far, so good. No signs of the living—or the dead. Maybe the zombies have eaten everyone out of house and home, and headed out of town. You can hope, right? The car's engine sounds horribly loud as you roll gently onward. Main Street takes a curve to the right where there seems to have been a bit of an accident—probably folks trying to get out of Dodge and not being too careful about their driving—just like any other day. Several cars looked like they tried to swerve around the mess, but all they ended up doing was widening the mess across the entire road. This is probably the accident that hurt the patients you met in the Maple Valley Mall. Past the stranded vehicles, you can see the ferry building, and aside from the cars, there's nothing between you and the wharf. "There's no way to drive through this mess," you murmur to yourself. You think about it. One option is to ditch the car and just walk to the wharf. It isn't that far. "Go back to the last cross street," Brian orders. "Make sure there's no other way around. We have to be absolutely sure we have no other options before we leave the car behind." Seems like a good plan. You put the car in reverse, swing around, and head back to Elliot Street. The air feels warmer down this way—even through the windshield, which is odd. You turn right onto Elliot. Before you are all the way around the corner, you see the reason for the heat. Orange flames arch up into the sky. About a hundred yards down Elliot, a gasoline tanker delivering fuel to the local service station is on fire. The roaring inferno has engulfed the street. It's pretty clear you're not going that way. In the other direction, Elliot Street runs another two hundred fifty yards before vanishing around a corner. The road looks clear up that corner. No, hang on, there's movement up there. Could be an animal. Could be a zombie. Both an animal and a zombie, as it turns out. As you approach the corner, you see a flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye, and a zombie dressed in disturbingly fashionable skinny jeans and high boots pounces—on all fours, like a cat. She comes up with a pigeon in her mouth, and a cloud of pigeons in the air all around her as they flee. The pigeon in her mouth kicks and struggles too, but it has no chance. You tear your eyes away from the blood and feathers on her face to see that the flock of pigeons has landed. Only a few feet away. Nothing disturbs pigeons, apparently. Not even the horde of twelve zombies who explode from around the corner, making for the pigeon flock. Why are you still sitting here and looking at them? It's a horde of zombies! And even if they preferred pigeons to humans, there aren't enough pigeons for all of them! What are you going to do? You have never been so glad to be driving this gas-guzzling monstrosity. First you clip Zombie Number One—the one with the boots—sending her spinning off to the side. Her pigeon flies through the air and lands with a splat. The next zombie folds like a rag doll and vanishes under the car, which bucks as it hurtles over the body. You don't manage to jerk the wheel aside quite in time to avoid the stubbornly clustered group of four, but the Jeep plows through them with no trouble. Their pigeons likewise take to the air in a tornado of feathers that makes it very hard to see. But you don't really need to see, not all that well, at least—you just keep the big monster truck pointed forward. A moment or two later, you emerge on the other side of the pigeon-zombie mess. Nicely done! Your feelings of success are somewhat short-lived, as it appears that something you drove over has rendered the Jeep inoperable. The gas pedal doesn't appear to do anything anymore. And the remaining zombies have discarded their pigeons and are now headed your way. Looks like you'll have to abandon the Jeep. You look around for escape routes and run straight for a nearby dollar store. You slam the door on grabbing, reaching zombie hands. They trail across the glass, leaving streaks of blood and viscous fluid and…and something green. You're not sure what. You reinforce the door as much as possible and retreat further inside. You see a back door, which leads into a quiet and deserted alley, and in a moment you'll go out that way. You need three or four deep breaths first. You stand in the dollar store in the middle of the infested city. You open the back door and very quietly step outside. The alley seems to serve several shops along here, and you can't quite make out whether it's enclosed or not. You and Brian edge quietly down the alley. After the dollar store you pass by the rear doors for a pizza place, a hair salon, a Starbucks—damn, you sure could use a strong coffee right about now. From the alley behind you, you hear the sound of smashing glass. You and Brian rapidly cover the remaining distance of the alley. Which ends with a rather imposing wall—about ten feet high. Not something you could easily climb over, but maybe… …particularly if Brian gave you a boost… The faint but distinctive sound of more crashing glass funnels up the alleyway. It sounds like something is making its way into your alley, which is probably not good. You quickly look around. There's plenty of debris on the ground, and several pretty pungent trash bags, some of them half torn open with their contents adding to the mess. The last door is to a pharmacy, but a quick try of the handle says it's locked. However, above the pharmacy door is a louvered window. The plastic looks thoroughly weathered and sun-baked. If you could bust out those louvers, you might be able to unlock the door somehow. As you consider your options, the unwelcome sound of moaning reaches your ears. You turn your head in time to see three zombies trundle around the corner at the far end of the alley. Another three appear behind them. "Oh crap," you think, "what's a zombiepocalypse survivor to do?" You grab a discarded brick and hurl it at the plastic, which immediately shatters. As I said, the louver is very small and high up. You can reach through the window, but you can't quite reach the door handle on the other side. Just then, out of a corner of your eye, you spot salvation: an umbrella discarded in the trash. Perfect for manipulating objects just out of reach! You quickly reach down and pull on the hook of the door handle. Unfortunately, the door is dead bolted. And, apparently, someone discarded this umbrella because the handle is loose; it breaks off and falls uselessly to the floor inside the pharmacy. The zombies are very close now; they would be breathing down your neck if they were actually breathing. "Uh, Keith?" says Brian. "Can you hurry it up a bit?" You realize with a sinking feeling that this was a very bad decision. Then the oncoming wave of zombies crashes over you. The next few minutes are a confusion of teeth, feet, rending pain, and terrible smells. You bob back and forth like a tennis ball in a dryer. Finally, the pain subsides into a dull numbness. But then, almost as suddenly, the wave passes. You're alive! You stand up and look around. How could you possibly have survived that onslaught? As you ask yourself that question, you realize that you haven't eaten in a while. You look around for food, but there's nothing edible nearby. You walk slowly out of the alley. It's kind of restful, just putting one foot in front of the other this way. Or it would be, if you weren't so hungry. It's hard to move. It's hard to see. Your eyes are covered with a strange film. They water. Water runs from the corner of your mouth, too. And you are hungry. SO HUNGRY. The herd of your brethren is disappearing around the corner. In pursuit of food, you are fairly certain. You follow them, but awkwardly, and they quickly outdistance you. You follow anyway, one foot and then another. You're so hungry. SO HUNGRY. WANT FOOD. And there's no food. No scurrying food. No flying food. You think those kinds of food have names, but you can't remember for sure. There's food! Up there! Food's running fast! Running toward you! You drool with anticipation. "Help me!" the food shouts desperately, and the sound brings you up short. It reminds you of something. The food is saying more words, looking behind itself, smelling very tasty indeed in the warm sunlight, all sweaty and ripe. You try to understand the words, but the smell…you're so hungry, and it's food, and it smells so good.… SO HUNGRY. He screams as you take the first bite, but the screaming doesn't bother you much, and it doesn't last for long. SLIMY WARM BRAINS SO GOOD. You leave the non-tasty bits on the road and keep walking, searching for more food. BRAINS, you say to yourself. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. Alas, the zombiepocalypse has claimed another victim—you. You are now a shambling, drooling, rotting undead, motivated only by the compulsion to eat the flesh of humans. Hey, eat, shamble, rot, eat, shamble, rot—it's not a bad life, really. Category:Zombie Category:ZomPoc Category:Story Category:Zombie story Category:ZomPoc story